


turnaround

by rakukajas



Category: The Shape of Water (2017)
Genre: ASL, Character Study, F/M, Fluff, Language Acquisition, Mild Exploration of Biology, Sexual tension you could cut with a knife (or perhaps a very sharp claw), Slice of Life, TYGFML (Thank You Guillermo For My Life), Teeth kink, learning, minor injury, neck biting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 23:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13937607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rakukajas/pseuds/rakukajas
Summary: She marvels at the thinking he does—the process of rehearsing, encoding, and recalling that not even some adults are capable of. He’s more intelligent and capable of sensitivity than anyone ever allowed him to be, and her heart aches for it—forhim, for the neglect he went through.Eyes closed in thought, he slowly echoes her motion.You learn fast.No,she corrects, firmly pointing at him.You. You learn fast.





	turnaround

**Author's Note:**

> i watched the shape of water knowing it would instantly become my new favorite movie, and the Only Aspect that could've ever possibly disappointed me was that we didn't get a tarzan-style language learning montage. let the fishman learn how to read guillermo  
> infinite thanks to @entrywound for being a walking writer's retreat. ilu
> 
> enjoy! ♡

*

 

It takes a while for him to get used to certain things.

The doors, for one. Wrapping his head around the idea of _you can’t go here_ was a problem for his psyche, Elisa assumes. Going from the freedom of Amazonian wilderness to a 3x5 fish tank must have been a rough transition, and it took a few times corralling him back into the bathroom for it to fully set in.

The windows were another. Elisa needed to keep him as far as possible from them during the day—being found out by something as mundane as looking through theirs would’ve been embarrassing on her part, to say the least. But he’s an observant creature, and would rather spend his time peering through the glass to watch all the little people mill about on 5th lane than anything else, so she gives him a few minutes a day with the smallest window in the house, and watches from the sofa with her hands crossed over her stomach. He chirrups and stirs every few seconds, making new notations, voicing things to her that she can’t understand. At some point he signs the word for _dog_ , and she’s not sure where he even learned it from.

He’s lonely. She knows that much. But she has not much else to do once she’s out of work, and her new friend is, after all, the most interesting thing out for miles.

The sun is slanting through the mottled glass of their window at sunset when he suddenly trills at the outside. Elisa smiles—he must see something he likes—when he rushes toward her and does something completely normal: he grabs her hand.

She has no time to protest before she’s being pulled up to her feet, but the sharp slide of pain over her fingers feels like a razor and it forces her to reel back, gasping, hand freed from his grip and blooming with red.

He turns back towards her, confused: _why’d she let go?_ , when he sees the fruit of his carelessness, and cries sharply with surprise and concern; the sound, not unlike a pained animal, travels up her spine in sparkling discomfort.

Elisa grits her teeth and holds her wrist, hand trembling and raw. She nearly backs away from him when he approaches, but thinks better of it; he meant no harm, she reminds herself—his sad, discordant croons serve as evidence. With large hands hovering over hers, his chittering only rings louder, more desperate. He signs choppy, agitated little motions with what little language he knows: _Hurt. Hurt. Sorry. Hurt._

She laughs, delighted by his worry, and would’ve signed _Okay_ if she had two hands to sign it.

It takes a few minutes to quell the bleeding, but Giles rushed to her rescue from his bedroom, and returned the favor from when the very same thing happened to him. He says something tittering about the dangers of exotic pets, but there’s no bite to it, and the unspoken sympathy as he bandages her hand feels like an apology and a warning all at once.

The apology, however, comes later, when her friend cups her forehead and her wrist with two delicate hands. He coos and clicks and vibrates with light, shimmering blue scales transfering whatever magical healing powers they had onto her and her newly wrapped wound. Giles has already seen what it can do to him. Elisa thrills at thinking what it might do to her.

That night, she takes her friend aside and tries to teach him a lesson. If he’s going to be staying here for a little while, he’ll need to learn some etiquette, and how not to slice people’s hands open.

She draws his hands to hers. He doesn’t seem to understand until she runs a finger down the length of a claw, and he shudders, pulling his hand back towards his chest.

She sighs. Maybe this needs a different approach.

Gently, she reaches, taking his hands in hers, bringing them up to where they both can see. He watches with removed concern, eyelids blinking independently as if to ask: _What are you doing?_

Elisa, brows raised, clicks his claws together. He does not move. She does it again, smoothing her hands over them, careful with the underside where they taper. Then, pulling away, she signs. _Claws_. He signs it right back, nodding, following.

She takes his hand again, and, moving them both towards the wall, streaks his claws over the wallpaper, where coils of mildew and dandelion curl off the surface completely. At his curious clicking, she signs, _Sharp_. He gently slides them over the wallpaper again, watching the coils peel off and snorting at the smell. Without looking, he echoes. _Sharp_.

She taught him the sign for _Careful_ two days ago, after he’d nearly smashed her silverware, so she repeats it once more to him, gauging his reaction. His eyes follow her hands, gears turning in his head, until he nods once in understanding. He’s got it.

Okay. One more thing. Elisa takes a shallow breath, and brings her gentle hand to his mouth, where she asks for him to open it by pulling his lips apart with her fingers. Like running a hand over nails, she traces the wet row of his teeth, feather-light and intimate. A rumble starts low in his chest and travels up to her fingers, where she feels it through him like a motor.

His jaw slackens, eyes glassy and fluttering. A tongue prods at her hand. When his stuttered breath dampens her wrist, she pulls back, wipes it on her skirt, and signs firmly up at him. _Teeth_.

He touches his mouth, curious. There’s that understanding again.

Keeping his eyes on her hands, she brings it all back around. _Teeth. Sharp. Careful._

It’s like a lightbulb goes off. He chatters gamely, the frills on the side of his neck blowing out with amusement. Elisa sighs with relief. They’re getting somewhere.

But there’s something more to it, she thinks. He hasn’t stopped looking at her intently, hasn’t stopped following her movements. She’s about to teach him something else on the spot when his hands rise up to her collarbone, trailing against her skin with the back of his claws—the cool sharpness, the place, his size, the way they trail just under her blouse, are enough to bring her to goosebumps. Her legs feel wobbly, stomach feels liquid.

His breath fans out warm over her face. She licks her lips, shudders, and signs, _Careful_.

Moving further into her space, rumbling and half-lidded, he signs back. _Careful_.

His teeth meet her throat, pressing her to the wall, and Elisa gasps.

 

*

 

His new favorite thing is the television.

Three days ago, it was an egg. Yesterday, he’d been fiddling with the concept that things could be turned _on_ or _off_ , and Elisa spent the better part of an hour convincing him that it was a bad idea to turn on the faucet late at night, because Mr. Arzoumanian from downstairs would have killed her if his theater flooded again, and she was not about to deal with _another_ problem.

She steps carefully beside him, where he lies on his chest before the TV. His hands are clasped almost daintily beneath his chin, legs drifting behind him in the air like a child, or a particularly bored housewife. She’s never seen him so fully _immersed_ in something—so enraptured, so slack-jawed. He’s reached out to touch the dancing little figurines nearly three times already, a wet claw scraping gently over fizzling glass.

She takes a seat on the rug where he can see her, and his eyes snap up to meet hers. He croons something smooth and low, as if in greeting, and goes right back to his dancers.

At this angle, she can see down his spines, all the way to the clawed toes grooving lines in the hardwood. He rarely sits still for this long, or gives her a chance to see his rear—though she figures that’s more instinct than anything else. No matter how much he may seem to relax, he is never truly at home, and she can only imagine the toll it takes on his health.

She shifts to see the film better, and smiles. It’s a little piece from not over five years ago. The performers, young and streamline, hop and curl languidly between each other, their white gowns glowing under the limelight. Static from the TV has outlined the film, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes track their movement like a predator but lack all the malice. He clicks and sighs with wonder, tracing his fingertips over their shapes like she has done before, through the glass over him.

She taps the wood to draw his attention onto her, and sweeps her fingers around her face. _Beautiful_.

He blinks in understanding, and shifts so that his arms are free—glances back towards the movie, and then onto her. Crosses his legs like she has, repeats the sign with clumsy, webbed hands. _Beautiful._

She would have laughed if she could, but a sharp sigh of delight is enough to communicate. At the sound, he stares at her, eyes blown out in eager contemplation. Something seems to shift in his mind, like a box in a moving car, and he chitters with joy. Makes the sign again. _Beautiful_.

She looks back towards the dancers and feels her grin widen, cheeks straining with joy. The progress they’re making is—is astronomical in proportion to anything else ever discovered—Dimitri would be _jubilant_. His eyes, flecks of intelligent gold, seem to map out the smile on her face, jaw set and strong. When he sees that she’s staring at the screen, he shakes his head, and makes a rasping growl of discontent. _No._

She startles. Maybe she went a bit too quick with him. Gently signs back, _No?_

He shifts in, sits up, moves further into her space with ease. He reaches out one hand to slowly clasp her chin, breathing hard into the inches of air between them, rattling his alien lungs with fervor. She angles her head, forcing the well of fear back down her throat.

His hands drift up, rough scales gently sliding up the sides of her face. She laughs, exhales slow, eyes crinkled at the corners with sudden tenderness. He pulls back, points at her chest, and slowly draws his hands around his face. _You. Beautiful._

She gasps, eyes brilliantly wide, pulls her hands up to her face, and the swell in her lungs, under her ribcage, of wild _fondness_ is unlike anything she’s felt before. He trills happily, satisfied at her reaction, and seems to mimic the muscles to form a smile.

The joy is enough for her to crash down onto her side like a schoolgirl, knees pressed up against her chest. She almost feels the need to hide her flushing face from him, but he quickly mirrors her motion by dropping down onto _his_ side, and meets her wet eyes from where they’re both sprawled out on the carpet.

She lies there, and lets herself stare. He is content with being observed. It’s only until she feels the need to praise him that she interrupts the silence—but even so, neither speaks. The silence remains unbroken.

Sitting up, she points, scrapes lightly at one hand, and crosses them. _You learn fast_.

He sits up to follow her behavior and, once she repeats it, trills at her words with a croaking laugh. She marvels at the thinking he does—the process of rehearsing, encoding, and recalling that not even some adults are capable of. He’s more intelligent and capable of sensitivity than anyone ever allowed him to be, and her heart aches for it—for _him_ , for the neglect he went through.

Eyes closed in thought, he slowly echoes her motion. _You learn fast_.

 _No_ , she corrects, firmly pointing at him. _You_. _You_ _learn fast_.

He snorts with frustration. Something isn’t coming across. His hands hover in the air and wobble as if to say, _Hold on_ , and he sits in concentration for a moment before an idea takes him and he signs confidently, so fast she almost misses it. _Together. Word for together._ Like a sort of request. He doesn't know how to say it.

Elisa’s confusion must have registered, because he repeats it once more. She mouths the words, thinking, thinking—until she has her own miniature _A-ha_ moment, and she looks back up at him to sign. _Also_.

At that, he seems to relax. A long breath rattles out of him, shaking the fins on his neck; he meets her eye, and signs again, crooning all the while. _You. Also. Learn fast_.

Elisa breaks into another grin, and the swell of love is back again. Blood rushes into her head so quickly she feels faint, and she laughs that harsh little laugh, swooning onto his chest like a blushing maid. He chitters low in his chest and she feels the vibrations through his skin, rumbling down to her bones like coiling thunder. Her eyes feel wet again, as they always seem to do around him, her friend, her brilliantly _smart_ friend, who called her beautiful and means it, _understands_ it. She laughs and shakes against his chest, winding her arms tightly around his neck, and presses a dampened forehead onto the underside of his chin.

The way he holds her like this, hands around her waist and trailing up her spine, is nothing short of deliberate—enchanting— _adoring_. Her heart feels like a hummingbird’s, threatening to climb into her throat, and when he hears her thrumming heartbeat, he smooths a firm hand over her chest, right over her ribs and through her blouse. The act is so intimate she gulps.

He turns down to look at her, and she looks up at him, and with one slow motion, he signs again. _Beautiful_.

Elisa, trembling and silent, cries into his chest.

He will never know, but he may understand.

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> yell at me [@rakukajas](http://rakukajas.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
